


The only Heaven I’ll be sent to is when I’m alone with you

by Alex_Levi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Actor Ben Solo, Alexa play take me to church by hozier, Angst, Ben often wonders what the point is of everything, Childhood Friends AU, Christianity in theory but not explicitly so, F/M, Hogwarts AU, Intense pining, Mulan AU, Open ended, PA Rey, Reincarnation AU, Religiously blasphemous, Soulmates AU, adam and eve vibes, and also eros & psyche, basically 5+1 things, but more so on dramione dynamic, i cannot believe how many AUs i can fit into one oneshot, i may rewrite this soon because i wrote it without sleeping, world war ii au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25199710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Levi/pseuds/Alex_Levi
Summary: There are lifetimes where they do not meet, and lifetimes they fleetingly missed each other. There are lifetimes where they do not even exist at all.There are times when only one of them does, and these are the lifetimes they only lived as halves of a whole.Or: A man builds the lives he lived for the moment they meet again. (reincarnation AU)
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 17
Kudos: 34





	The only Heaven I’ll be sent to is when I’m alone with you

This is the story of the cursed one.

It starts at the very beginning, like the book says. The Unknown Being creates the universe and all that comes, and there is a man - alone and blessed. He is the son of the right hand.

He asks for something to soothe the dryness of his throat and he is led to a stream; he begs for the ache in his stomach to cease and he is shown a tree; he tires after a day and he is guided to a cave to rest.

The Unknown Being so loved the man, He gives everything - and when he is lonely and without purpose, He takes a part of his ribs and creates her.

She is called the woman, and in this story she is life personified. Her eyes are the color of the leaves on the trees in the summer, and when the light hits them right, they mimic the calming stability of earth as it moves under their feet. The long length of her dark hair is a waterfall of its own, a crash gracefully cascading down her body. When she smiles, her lips part like flowers blossoming - delightful, captivating, generous - and he hangs on the edges of its peak.

She is everything. She is the drop of golden sun.

The man has never seen anything more beautiful, and he is nothing but reduced to her own servitude, for he loves her dearly. He listens to her hopes as they sit under a shade, holds her warm hand as they walk along the banks of the shore. He shares what he has, offers his own world for her taking. He is beholden to her every word, and he has promised her victories of wars unfought.

For a time they were happy, but they are made with imperfections and limits. Humans exist in the likeness of Him, and He, as they are, is never satisfied. They scream for more, for lives they are unable to sustain, and it angers the Unknown Being. Regret, shame, loss - this should not have happened.

So He pries the man from the woman, and for eternity, she will forget his face. Should she see the stars in his eyes, life in turn will end.

But the man is persistent - he cannot be parted from her, and he waits and walks until the new one begins. Hundreds of lifetimes until they meet again.

&&&

The man has walked a billion steps more before he sees the familiar way that the sun hits her eyes.

It is in the middle of a battlefield; she is suited in an armor not befitting her identity. Her hair is trimmed short, and her face is obscured from recognition. She is the smallest of the lot, and she wields the sword as if it were an extension of her arm. Graceful, he cannot forget the way she moves. Enchanting, gripping. She is life personified.

It is with desperation that he runs to her - so long has he waited, and he forgets that she does not remember him. The feel of her blade as it slices through his stomach is a longing he cannot begin to explain, for there are no words to the elation he is experiencing to finally be free of this suffering.

A life she does not know him is a life not lived.

&&&

There are lifetimes where they do not meet, and lifetimes they fleetingly missed each other. There are lifetimes where they do not even exist at all.

There are times when only one of them does, and these are the lifetimes they only lived as halves of a whole.

&&&

But then, he wakes.

He begins as a child. He has a mother who loved him, and a father who is absent. _It’s alright_ , he thinks, _he is only an instrument in this._

After billions of miles, he has learned patience.

He goes through the days with head above the water, barely living, the motions so familiar he does not make an effort. Again, he walks like he knows these small steps lead to her eventually. It is bound in the stars, he knows - it is written in his punishment.

They are in a different war this time - the world isn’t fighting for an unnamed territory to conquer. These are battles suited for the logic of tyrants - hateful, unfair, inhumane. They isolate one group to terrorize the other, and wiping a race seems to be a skill they have honed from their successors. 

This is when weapons are more advanced, and shots are fired effectively to get kills. These are the promising features of a broken future, of a place where there will always be oppression in the eyes of the king who sits.

He meets the woman at a bar when he is twenty-five, an esteemed soldier and a well-raised gentleman. The battle is being fought passionately, and he gets one night in town to celebrate a win. She is in front of the barkeep, glass between lips the color of the blood gushing from the wound of his friend. Her eyes dim like the earth of the unmarked graves he has buried, hair curling as akin to the waves of the ocean under a boat that almost sinks. She is and is not the woman he knew.

He strides over to her, and he knows to be careful this time. She may not have a sword in her hand, but he is aware of the catastrophe she can wield on her own. He has learned patience, he needs to make this one count. To prolong this – because she will love him in time, that much he wills to happen. Life will end when she does.

No matter how the season changes, he is yet to be unsurprised with the way she makes him feel. There are no words to describe the erratic beats of his heart – its rhythm unsynchronized with the band, and his ears muffled with static as he nears where she is. The others are a blur of bodies and sweat, and they don’t matter in this moment, or in any other moments thereafter. He is anchored to her, a gravity only she exudes places him in the orbit of all the right things. She is a light to a path of most resistance, the quiet balance in the chaos of his mind.

“A whiskey.” He speaks as he sits on the stool next to hers. She briefly glances at him, the rank on his uniform, and drinks.

“Never seen your face in here before.”

He hands the barkeep a note and turns his glass, watches the ice bounce to the confines of the space, wonders what she is doing here. The black she wears is a symbol of loss, of missing pieces and sad stories, things wanting to be mourned. Had she lost a beloved? Or had she been waiting for him too?

“I’m looking for someone, and I’m hoping it’s you.”

She smiles alluringly, and to be in the receiving end of it after so long is the first breathe of air in your lungs after drowning. “I’m not that easy. You’ll have to work harder to win me over, Sergeant.”

“Oh, I very much intend to,” She offers her hand, and in turn, he brushes his lips on each of her knuckles without taking his eyes off her, “ma’am.”

The woman sends him a low chuckle; it goes straight to soothe the unseen wound she tore through his stomach. “Don’t you make promises you can’t keep. The night’s too young.”

He squeezes the hand still in his grasp but doesn’t let go. He doesn’t ever think he can.

The man leads the woman at the center of the floor, the song slowing into the waltz his parents had danced on the few occasions his father was home. He places his free hand at the small of her back, and her own goes tentatively a little higher on his shoulder. They stand close for the first time after hundreds of lifetimes unmet.

Her body fits his own like a crash after being sober – intoxicating, or like a homesickness, the feeling of being complete. She had been taken from his ribs, she owns a part of him he cannot get back – and never would he want to. How did he ever manage to make it through without his other half?

But he builds the lives he lived for the moment they meet again. Over and over.

The night goes on, and never does he leave her side once. He’s afraid to lose her so suddenly, to be taken away from her again. He doesn’t even get the chance to introduce himself the last time, and making her remember would be a battle lost without having begun – they are against a being detrimentally superior and metaphysical, what He speaks of is what it is.

As they walk through the streets, under which flickering street lamps are the only guide they have on their trail to her apartment, he stills. She looks back at him curiously, her thumb pressing a lingering touch on the patch of skin it can reach. “Are you coming, Sergeant?”

He steps closer to her, tucks the loose curl of her fringe behind her ear. “I’ve been wonderin’ all night – does your lips taste as good as it looks?”

She gives him a lovely roll of her eyes, and his chest swells with how much he loves her, how much he’s missed this, how will he ever get this back. _My darling girl, is this really all we’ll ever be?_

“I guess there’s only one way to know, isn’t there?” She is the one to get on her tiptoes and seals the kiss. He runs the back of his hand on her jaw and breathes her in – every little bit of her she is willing to surrender, he will have. He is nothing but a foolish man, so thirsty to be drinking from the vessel of her lips. He has never loved another, and it hurts – this will not be forever. Time stops only for the dreamers, and he is a realist.

The man has lived long enough to know that even with the perfection of this very second, things can only go worse from here on. _How unfair. How cruel._

In between drawn-out kisses and bodies joined, in between sighs and sweats, of laughter and unbidden thoughts of tomorrow, the sirens blare angrily, shouting: _You are not allowed to be happy! Enough now!_

And then – explosions. The pandemonium begins.

&&&

Sometimes he talks to the Unknown Being, asks him if He is entertained in His fancy seat up high. Does He get satisfaction in his pain? Will He ever grant him mercy?

_I don’t want to see the fire in her heart burn out._

**_Ah, but you have yet to learn._ **

_Well then, fucking tell me what I’m supposed to learn. I am not a smart man. I only want one thing._

**_You always beg for more. That is my fault, I believe. I have given you everything._ **

****

He screams into the dark abyss of nothingness – just one frustrated, dragged-out scream – then he starts walking again.

&&&

The next comes unexpectedly.

He is someone of a status, a known figure. His life in this one has been publicly criticized and privately envied, he makes a living out of pretending. Everyone knows his name – and nothing matters anymore, because he couldn’t feel the strange pull of her gravity.

But oh, when he did, it jostles him out of orbit. He is in disarray, a step too short, a scout unprepared. He looks at the timer on his wrist, the implant everyone in this reality seems to have. It has been zeroed since he can remember, and it makes him believe he is in one of the unfortunate timelines where she does not exist.

Of every time he is alive, he looks for her, but he is not omnipotent. He isn’t given any instruction of where to find her, or where to go apart from his own compass – its needle pulls him to her direction by magnets of her making.

Maybe he got vainglorious in time. Maybe he trusted his own self too much to be complacent, to be so confident to give up hope that he will have to endure hundreds of years more before he sees her again. He is a fool, he often forgets how much the Unknown Being wants him to suffer.

The timer doesn’t do anything, but in her eyes, he is staring directly. Its flecks of greens in the browns are drowned by the dark void of her pupils, her mouth parts open like she is struck. The locks of her hair are dyed in the shade of autumn leaves and she wears a dress that clings to her as much as he wants to. She is rooted to the spot like a tree, strong and beautifully unrelenting. She is life – warm and safe.

Similarly, he would assume he is wearing the look on her face. Out of all the places in the world, he did not think he will meet her at the back stage of some ceremony where he is a recipient of an underwhelming gold trophy. He doesn’t care for the logistics either way; the only feeling that comes through his mind is relief.

He looks at her wrist and sees it is blank, just a line of red, puckered flesh long healed. She clutches the board she is holding tighter to her chest, and he wishes to pry her hands away from it and finally hold them in his own.

How much he has yearned for her cannot be conceptualized by mere words. He begs for infinite lifetimes to cope, because letting her know he loves her is fifty lives on its own. Will they ever catch up on missed moments? Are they allowed to be happy for once?

“Hi.” He whispers so quietly he isn’t sure she hears. The crowd outside applauds the people on stage. _It’s been a while._

She blinks twice and licks her lips. “Oh. Hi.”

As he takes her in, a mere thought pops through his head: _I cannot bear to watch you die. Would you kill me if I wish to remember you in this light?_

And so he takes a step back and moves away.

But he cannot stay far from the woman for too long. The world finds them together and again, a year later, stuck in a trailer after a long day. She works in the sidelines, brings coffee to those who need it, runs errands – the set will fall apart if not for her.

He sees her stealing glances – he knows this because he had been doing the same thing. In times when she does not think about him at all, he looks and looks. He devours her without tasting. He feels her without touching. He can’t get enough.

Funny thing about this whole mess is that they have become legends – in whichever reality there is, they whisper about a man who’s angered God, he’s lost his soul forever, searching and seeking and not finding peace. He walks until there is no further steps to be had, and walks some more until he’s found her. The God takes her away, and the cycle goes on.

There were inconsistencies to the story – surely, they will not think of such being a God all-knowing, as if that Someone does not fault him for his mistakes and laughs about it so savagely. They write parables of His goodwill, in whatever form or religion, and nobody contests because they fear they would have the same fate as the man.

And they always get the whole taking her away wrong – do they know He kills them if she ever returns his love?

Humanity is so blinded by being the underdog that they turn away when He shows His flaws. If He is not the perfect almighty, then what happens after life itself? Their unanswered questions will have no one to account for. Where will they find meanings in the things they cannot explain?

_Is He really your God?_ He wonders as he watches her greet everyone but him. She sheds light to all the people she meets, and it gives him a sense of bittersweet pride.

If you ask the man who he’d rather worship, he’ll point you to the woman who’s whole universe reposes inside of her. She is built with hundreds and thousands of lifetimes lived, of heartaches and pleasures. He will pray at the altar of her soul, he will go down on his knees in reverence of his faith. Her very presence saves him daily.

His hostility is without consequence. No matter how he tries to avoid her, they always go back to the point of no return.

This time, it is in a form of an errand. The woman is tasked to hand him his script, and the door of his stupid trailer is jammed. She laughs nervously and gives it another nudge. It doesn’t make any difference, and he can feel the dread slowly filling her mind. “Shit.”

He nods and thumbs through the thick stack of paper, watching her from the mirror. “I know.”

“Are you not freaking out?” She pulls at the handle tirelessly. “I have to be in the set for the prepping. Shit – fuck – I am so fired.”

“Just tell them you’re with me.” He says as he puts the script on the counter. She blinks up at him, confused but also a bit offended, “Why would I say that?”

He shrugs. Her eyes narrow, meeting his gaze on their reflections. “I can’t believe I used to tell people you aren’t a dick because you’re _super_ quiet all the time, but god, maybe don’t open your mouth, because when you do, you’re such an asshat.”

“An asshat.” He repeats dumbly.

“An _asshat_.” She confirms, yet her resolve is breaking; it is clear she lets her temper get in the way, that there are things she regrets saying – it’s familiar how her blood rises up to her cheeks and color her face a charming shade of pink. He feels that homesickness crawl up to his veins and make home in his atrium.

He chuckles, “You could not be more correct than that.”

She stills, pauses like the first moment they met in this lifetime. Her hand slowly goes up to her chest and her eyes dilate a little, and it’s making his head hurt. The screaming voice at the back of his mind furiously shouts to _get her out! She does not need this – save her while you can, damn it! Don’t give in!_

_Just let me enjoy this, please. Just one time. Please give it to me._

But she is the one who keeps finding him no matter where he hides. He tries harder to avoid her, but she is unyielding because she is half of him. Even if she does not remember, she can still sense the emptiness of the space he was unwillingly torn apart from, the void only he can occupy, the frustration of not knowing what is not working out. How right is the feeling of the first time their eyes meet? The first time their lips touch? How quiet are their minds in this very second?

He stands and turns his back on the mirror to face her. “Hi.”

Her eyes fixates on him with faint recognition, and he cannot help but hope that it was for their time before, when it is most likely due to her finally realizing she’s speaking to him, a famous person. It’s not hard to get this reaction – only there’s just something about the way she is looking at him, like she sees him for all these past lifetimes, as if the ghost of his lover’s past has been whispering, _urging_ , telling her to remember. Letting her know he came back, as promised. All the damn time.

_Please._

Then she blinks, and it all gets forgotten. “Hi.”

He smiles to himself, stepping into her space. She holds her breath. “What’re you doing?” Her gaze falls down on his lips, and he strains himself when her eyes drift close, always so afraid to deny her anything.

But he is determined this time, so he reaches behind her and twists the handle of the door with the trick he learned from his father way back. It swings open, as do her eyes.

She blushes profusely and glares at her shoes. “Thank you.”

He watches her go, at ease with the fact that she lives a day more.

However, the stories often forget he is just a man – a mere mortal, who dies and lives with the memories of his past lives and all those in betweens. Even then he gives in to temptations, even then he is seduced to repeat his mistakes. Some people do worse things – he’s seen them burning the world, killing each other – why is he the one that gets punished?

The man often thinks about absolution and whatever the hell it means, he still does not understand even after all these time. 

He sits in the corner of the room, celebrations all around him for a job well done. They are finally finished, and maybe this is the chance to get himself far and away from her, no matter how much his heart aches to keep her close. His colleagues try to engage him in conversations he isn’t interested in – there’s only her attention he craves.

Viewing her in this light – this is damnation worth everything; the sweetest of punishment comes in the form of her in this moment, how easy it is to accept and give in - to prove the being right.

_It’s okay. It’s enough. You’ve held back for too long. Give up. You will never win. You’re all gonna die anyway, what is the point?_

Or maybe it’s just the drink that’s clouding his judgement, but when she pulls him in a closet he does not resist putting his lips on her neck, his hands on her waist, in the crooks of her legs as he pushes her up against the wall –

“— fuck,” she gasps as they joined, connected, finding serenity in mayhem.

He kisses her mouth hungrily, never wanting to hear her say anything after, lets their bodies do the speaking. Her nails draw red lines on his back, and he sucks bruises on her collar, chest, her shoulders – anywhere he can get his mouth on, he will consume. She rolls her hips twice, throws her head back, and tips them over the edge of euphoria.

And then, free falling. This is Heaven on earth. He is not ready for this to end yet.

“I’m glad that’s out of the way.” She grins, and he takes a moment to just hold her to him. Her hands entangle in his hair, the familiarity of it so missed he may have tears in his eyes when he pulls away. “I have to shoot my shot.”

He laughs, “Then, what?”

“Then I would hope you take me to dinner,” she traces the skin around his lips, his dimples, the tip of his nose, “and maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“It purely depends on my social skills, of course.”.

“Not _purely,_ no.”

“Hmm?” He hums as he kisses her deeply.

“You’re electric,” she says after a while, “I can’t explain it. I feel alive when you’re near.”

His hand lingers on her scar, “You think I’m your soul mate?”

“I hope you are.” She touches the timer on his wrist, outlines the zeroes with her thumb. “We wouldn’t know, but I hope you are.”

There is a freak accident in the kitchens, and the smoke alarm blares through the whole venue in the shock of everyone inside. They haven’t managed to get out in time, and even the sprinklers cannot help them escape.

It’s an ugly way to go, but with her in his arms, it doesn’t feel that bad at all.

&&&

_It’s not very fun to be reduced to a legend, You know._

**_You should be glad. Most would rejoice._ **

****

_Glad? Is this some sick joke? Don’t presume You know anything about happiness if Your idea of entertainment is trapping me in this continuous, verdictless existence._

**_Careful, young one._ **

****

_Suck my –_

The man loses his ability to speak, so all his anger he puts into his glare, crosses his arms petulantly, and waits some more.

&&&

This time, the world hasn’t been kind to her.

She is bestowed upon magic of the ancient, a civilization hidden for much of history but operates in the shadows. Her parents are of normal heritage, surely she has not inherited this from them? They are afraid of her powers, have called numerous doctors and even an exorcist to deliver her from evil.

And when the headmaster came to talk to them about her, the relief they felt were palpable. Finally, somebody would be responsible for the monster! Finally, they can live normally again. 

This time, they meet at age eleven.

He is without parents – trusted instead to the nearest relative who isn’t banished from the family tree yet. He benefits from the wealth and the power, but had long since given up on simple happiness. His guardian is insidious; he had been a disgraced follower of the dark. 

The platform is packed to the brim, students coming from all over the country cramped into one station, various goodbyes and see you laters exchanged between families, hellos reciprocated by old friends.

The man stands with his adoptive father, who looks at the show with his nose turned up. He truly believes these people are beneath them, their blood most pure and untainted by those of inferior status. The man – still a boy – is sheltered much of his time as a child, but it doesn’t matter now; he can feel it in his bones. He’ll meet her today.

“Alright – off you go, boy.” His father says, patting his cheek and shooing him off. He keeps quiet, sees his only friend near the door of the train.

“Let’s go find a seat.” He mutters. The ginger – Hux, as he wants to be called – sneers at everyone that accidentally bumps into them. He tunes out all the other noise and lets his feet lead him to her.

He knocks on a compartment door where he could hear laughter and bickering reverberate from within. Ideally, he would have liked to find her alone, but it seems nothing works out his way.

The three people inside look up at the newcomers, wide-eyed and curious. They are sharing some sort of candy that varies in all these weird colors, but his eyes glue on her immediately.

Her hair is atrocious, he can admit this much. The freckles on her face, however, he could study and chart constellations of its own. Her hazel eyes are warm and excited and clear. The smile on her lips is gentle and hopeful. It is obvious she wants to be liked so much, and it breaks his heart a little.

“Hi!” She speaks, standing up and offering her hand. “Are you first years, too? Oh my, have you seen a toad? A fellow first year lost his and he can’t seem to find it.”

“A toad?” He mumbles, glancing down at her hand.

“You?” One of the two boys, a poor Ministry employee’s son who his father detests because they were lovers of non-magical folks, frowns at him. “I know this guy – he’s terrible. Don’t talk to him.”

Here he is a mere kid, and there are growing pains that goes with it. One of the things he hasn’t grown into yet is his temper, and how hard it is to choose his words. His eyes narrow at the boy, from his stupid curly hair to his stupid hand-me-down shoes, and scoffs, “I hardly think you’re the best of examples. Take a good look at yourself when you get the time. I hear your family’s barely making it – I mean,” he gestures, uninterested, “I don’t expect much from a Dameron.”

Hux snickers behind him, and the woman – still a girl – drops her hand and glares. The other boy, dark-skinned and short, the one who is celebrated because of his ugly jagged scar, rises to his feet and goes in front of her. “Lay off, who even are you?”

His face hardens, and maybe he feels a bit jealous and betrayed. Does she really want to associate herself with this lot? Would she really pick them over him?

“Hey,” Hux mutters, arms crossed, “if your father hears about you talking to these people, he'll go ballistic. Come on, let’s get moving. They’re not worth a second of our time.”

He takes one last lingering look at her, commits it to memory, and heads out to find somewhere else to seat. His mood doesn’t improve for the longest time.

But as it passes, he is thankful – he has never been in a life where he sees her so early on, it makes him experience this whole thing a little too differently. Sometimes, it gets him kind of angry and hateful, because she is extremely loyal to those two knuckleheads she calls her friends. They only ever get her in trouble, and they’re wasting away her brilliance – endangering her life with all these stupid adventures – and he cannot forgive himself if something were to happen to her.

Sometimes, it gets him oddly happy. He had always known he loves her, it is something that goes back to the very beginning of time, but to be confronting it as a child is like falling all over again. Rediscovering it in its most purest form. Always finding something new is wonderful, and seeing her grow up – grow old, especially – is a blessing much more than a punishment.

He watches from a distance; the hostility between their social groups have led them to be unwelcoming of each other. She is still finding the belonging she has long sought, and if she were to look, she’d be surprise to see it isn’t with them.

Young love is often underrated, and he has since learned patience and consideration. A past life they fell down because he had given in. It won’t be happening in this one, he knows. 

In the summer, they stumble upon each other in the shops as they’re searching for the prescribed books on the following year. He sits up and silently mopes as she laughs with her friends, frowns when his father notices. “Boy, this is very unsightly of you. Rise.”

He does so unwillingly; he keeps a straight face as the two of them near where they are. “Finding the front page fun? Bet you enjoy all the attention.” He sneers, and their little group looks up. His eyes meet hers briefly.

His father’s wand taps into his shoulder, making him stand aside. “Play nice, my boy. Who do we have here?” He squints his eyes when he sees the scar, “Ah, the legend.”

“I wouldn’t say that, sir.” 

“And color me intrigued – a Dameron. How’s your father?” He does not wait for the answer, merely turns to her like he does not want to waste time. “You must be the muggleborn. My son,” he glares at him for a second, “yes, he’s told me all about _you_.”

There is something sinister in the way he speaks, and the man wants so badly to hide her away from him forever. He is malicious and it’s as if he knows of their past with how he regards them, standing side-by-side, as if there is lines to be read in between. It gets him anxious without meaning to – how could _he_ know? They wake up in different lives and realities each time. There is no continuity in their story. Nobody had recurring roles apart from them.

The man stands tall, “Father, I’m afraid we’ll be late for the robe fitting.”

His father raises a brow at him, suspicious. It doesn’t matter; they just need to get as far from her as possible. “I’m afraid our meeting will be cut short. I look forward to seeing you the next time.”

_You won’t._ He thinks to himself. _Hell would freeze over before you do._

There are times he sees her alone in the library – buried under all her books and scrolls, blooming ink stains on her pale fingers. Her quill scratches along the parchment hurriedly, her lips nibbling at the tip of the feather as she solves an equation or thinks about how to shorten the time on a potion they’re about to brew. There are times when he gets the courage to sit down at the next table, drag out all his books, and revel in the perimeter of her space. She will glance at him, as if awaiting the insult, and her gaze will soften when his reply is only a shrug.

He can live like this, he muses. Until she punches him later in the year – rightfully so, but still it hurts a bit of his pride. And his nose. 

In their fourth year, the man gets a little taller. He thinks about how he’s slowly growing into his face, how nice it is that he’s been in her presence for longer than before. Ridiculously, too. There have been threats of escaped prisoners last year, the huge, centuries-old snake the year before that, and the missing professor their first year. This has been the most absurd reality he’s ever been in – and it’s nice to know that if he were to die this time, the chances are it wouldn’t be because of her (or she’ll likely survive more than he will – _the brightest witch of her age, a fitting title_ ).

As he watches her entrance in the yule ball that December, his heart drops. She looks ethereal, even more so than the usual. Her glow is unlike any other, and how many lifetimes should there be for him not to be knocked out of breath with her very presence?

_I have walked billions of steps to get to this moment_. _I’ll walk billions more to relive it._

He tries not to feel resentful when she cries over her stupid friend; merely looks down at her and offers his hand, “This is so unbecoming of you. Over Dameron? Really?”

She glares at his fingers and slaps it away, “I don’t need your pity. Go away.” She stands on her own and wipes her face with the back of her hand. Some of the powder stains her skin. “See you around.”

“Wait, hey!” He calls out and follows her to an empty classroom. “Why do you always think I’m just around to torment you?”

“Aren’t you?” She sits on one of the chairs and lays her head on the surface of the table. “Don’t you exist to make my life miserable?”

_That hits a little too close._ “I’d be friends with you, you know, if you weren’t friends with _them_.”

She snorts, “Good friends don’t issue ultimatums – you just want me to follow you around like Hux and Phasma do. Or copy off my essays.”

He walks over to the desk within her line of vision and leans back. “As if – I can keep up with you, you’re just too sore to admit it.”

“Sore?” She sits upright and squints at him, “The only class you’ve ever managed to one-up me is that dumb flying class back in first year.”

“And Divination.” He can’t help but add, smirking.

“ _Fine –_ and Divination.” She rolls her eyes and sighs, “But to be fair, _everybody_ is better at Divination than me. I _despise_ it.”

“I can’t believe your life revolves around classes and your two idiots.”

“Hey, that’s not nice. My life does _not_ only revolve around those things. And they’re not _my_ idiots.” She whispers an afterthought, mostly to herself. “They’re _not_ idiots. They just don’t think things through.”

“So you admit it – they’re not the only ones to make your world go around.”

Her brows knit together, regarding him cautiously. “Where are you going with this? I should be careful around you; for all I know, you’ll use this conversation against me.”

He sits on the floor so he can look up at her, the view from down here is better. She eclipses the dim light above, forms a small halo behind her head. How can such a cursed being appear this sacred? How many had put their hands together and prayed at her feet?

“You’ll get soot on your robes! Use a chair.” She makes a face and gestures to the seat next to hers.

He shakes his head, “Look, what I’m saying is they’re not the only reason you wake up in the morning, so why beat yourself up about it?”

“That’s not a good argument at _all_ – I am allowed to be sad and to mope,” she crosses her arms in front of her chest defensively, “because they’re important to me – they’re not just anybodies!”

“You misunderstand – I’m not cancelling your feelings,” he grits out, annoyed that she always gets so oversensitive with this topic even though they’re the reason she’s crying right now, “but they’re not saints, and it’s stupid of you to think of them as. They’re a bunch of buffoons, and maybe you shouldn’t stay friends with them if they make you feel bad.”

She stands up so suddenly it knocks back the chair she is occupying, “You know what? This is a mistake. You continue to prove how awful you truly are.”

“Awful? Oh yeah, make me the villain.” He gets on his feet too, stands straight so he towers over her. “You and your funny little friends always like to blame it on us – because _damn it_ , your circumstances are so bad, it’s like bad luck rained on you. A poor pureblood, an orphan, a fucking muggleborn – well, _boo_ fucking _hoo._ Let’s all cry about it! You’re not the only one who had problems!”

Her mouth hangs open; he can feel her anger radiate from her body. Even in times of fury, she glows like a ball of fire about to unleash its full wrath. He’d be happy to be on the receiving end of it, he confesses. He’d probably thank her for it, too. “You sit in a throne made of gold and eat dishes prepared by those poor house elves, while you sleep in cashmere pajamas and rant all day about how your bed isn’t soft enough – how are these real-life problems? Your father dotes on you, you are encouraged to improve your magic – you are not hidden like you’re a monster who’s about to burn everyone they encounter. You bully twelve year-olds for _fun_ and you have the audacity to mock us?”

_I’m fucking stuck in an existence where I had to watch you die again and again, is my problem now valid? Does this constitute to your standards?_

There are tears in her eyes, and this time it isn’t because of her friends. She sniffs and turns away, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Go to hell.”

_Oh, I have been trying._ He wants to say, unreasonably wants to profess everything – the lifetimes, the punishment, their story – but there isn’t any point. She’ll think he’s gone insane. She will never believe him – and even if in the off-chance that she does, she’ll be a clean slate once they get to their next life. _So what’s the point._

With one last glare at him, she strides out of the room and leaves him be. He picks the chair up and – to the abhorrence of his adoptive father – uses his hands to throw it to the other side of the room. The crash gives him a fleeting satisfaction that vanishes the soon it appears.

They didn’t talk for the rest of the year.

In the next, amidst the mourning of the school for a lost student, they announce the return of a greater evil. A tyrannical substitute professor pushes their headmaster from the grounds. A jailed father.

The last relieves him in an ungrateful sort of way, but the evil lives on in their manor, builds his palace as if he owns the place – the man is in no shape to fight this monster, and the pressure of his tasks have been daunting. He cannot kill an ailing man, he cannot aid a ransack that could lead to the school’s downfall. He is a bully, but that is playground talk. He knows when to draw the line. 

This isn’t it. He can’t do it. He needs to find a way out. It’s suffocating. 

And so he goes for comfort in strange places – desolated bathrooms, empty towers, rooms materializing out of nowhere. He finds himself more alone than ever, without sleep, tearing his hair out in frustration. He doesn’t want this life anymore.

So he spills out to the Order; all the information he had heard, the plans of siege at the end of the year, the vanishing cabinet, the horrendous mark on his arm – he gives them every detail they ask for, bits of himself he had been hiding. They can have it.

He stays with a distant aunt for the summer. He doesn’t doubt that the word has reached his master now, that he’s defected and on the run. He cannot go back to the school – they’ll kill him, and they’ll make him beg for it.

His loyalty is with questions. They assign members of the Order to stay with him and babysit, but his favourites were when she is the one fulfilling the role. They read together and keep quiet, and he watches her from the corner of his eyes when he knows she isn’t looking.

Her hair isn’t the nefarious thing it was from years ago; her curls are now tamed, falling softly over her face like the calm waves of the Great Lake. The eyes - they used to be so clear and warm - have been tainted by the oppressions of the ongoing war. He wants to burn the world for tearing her spirit and making sure she’s less of the person she used to be. 

“But we all need to grow up,” she says, the smile he saw that very first day on the train now insubstantial, now very rarely seen. It is something he has to work for. “Even you had the courage to get out when you know it’s time.”

He sweeps his thumb on her cheek, his other hand tracing the contours of her hips over the sheet. “Not you. Never _you_. You make a home out of every situation you are faced with. You deserve not to grow up so soon.”

She leans in to his touch and closes her eyes, “Not because I deserved it means it will stop the war. I can’t pack up and leave them behind.”

“Would you run away with me if I asked? We can definitey do it – blend in with the muggles. Run to a far away town in the outskirts of France, somewhere near the borders of Spain. Plant trees, eat organic foods all day. Live.”

“You drive a hard bargain, but I’d have to refuse.” She sighs. “I can’t go. Even if I want to.”

He chuckles lightly, pulling her closer. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’re explicitly stubborn. _This_ , you got from hanging out with them too much.”

Her eyes fly open just to roll them at him, “You are incorrigible.”

“Nerd.”

“Arsehole.” She grins and leans forward to put her mouth on his. The end, as he knows it, draws nearer.

It happens in another siege; no matter how much he begs for them to simply evacuate and hold back, they are determined to go and fight. The man cannot stop them, and the woman turns to him with her heart offered: “This is it – this is how you’ll prove your intentions. Come with me. Fight with me. You’re better than this. Don’t cower behind your fears. You are made of stronger wills.”

He takes her hand. They cast identical patronuses to the legion of dementors high above, watch each other’s back for stray curses, cast shields and perform healing spells on other students.

But even with the efficiency of them working together cannot stop Hux from summoning the enchanted flame that engulfs the whole room with no exits in sight. They’re trapped —it’s the end of the line.

She looks at him and entwines their fingers together, resigned. “I love you. I want to tell you when we make it out alive, but that seems impossible at the moment.”

He lifts her hand and kisses her fingers, “We’ll find each other again, I promise. I’ll run to the ends of the earth if I have to.” _If only you knew how much I have already ran._

”Rain check on France, then?”

”Rain check on France.”

You know, this is a good way to die. There aren’t any gushing blood, no messy organs thrown. The view is blindingly cathartic, as if they are nearing the sun and all the stars; they watch as the world turn to ash, the rich history of this ancient place reduced to gas and fire.

There is only them, and then nothing.

&&&

_A fire again? Don’t you have other ideas?_

**_I am not very creative, no._ **

****

_Hmph. I’d like to stay pretty for once when I die._

&&&

This may be his favourite out of all.

They grow up together and build their relationship on mutual trust and respect. They aren’t supernatural beings, not someone who makes the news on a daily basis. There are no war threatening their lives, and they are each other’s dearest friends. That, itself, is a love he can live with.

This time, he sees her walking down the aisle, radiant and beautiful in her flowing white dress. This time, he is not the man she ends up with – but that’s okay, because this time, he sees her trade the currency of youth for experience and a life well-lived.

This time, her last breath is witnessed by all the people who love her – children, grandkids, him.  
  


And he, too, passes.

&&&

_If you give me this last chance, I won’t come back. I’m tired. I want to crawl to her and find home.  
  
_

_If you give me this last chance, I’d make it count. I won’t ask for repeats. I’ll see the ending through._

_If you give me this last chance, I’ll forgive you too._

&&&

In the end, the man and the woman stand in front of each other - their loyalties on opposing sides. She wears neutral tones reminiscing the desert she grew up in, and he wears the darkest of colors fitted for the ghost that haunts him. They wield sabers of scarlet and cobalt, their connection makes them two that are one.

He goes by the name of Kylo Ren, and she by Rey.

There will be no one to tell the ending of their story - the legend is made to imply that the man is still walking and searching, but never will they know he has long found her. Never will they know how much he fights daily to get more time.

For now, he wishes it goes differently. He begs for mercy, for pity, for kindness – for he will surrender everything so that this time they live.

  
_“You’re not alone.”_

_”Neither are you.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hozier’s [Take Me to Church](https://open.spotify.com/track/3dYD57lRAUcMHufyqn9GcI?si=S_vXtHmPTOCQiL-WhtTzLg)
> 
> If it wasn’t too on the nose, please see below:
> 
> ▫️ The Son of the Right Hand is Benjamin. He is the last son of Jacob, second with Rachel, born in Canaan. 
> 
> ▫️ Ray (Rey) is the drop of golden sun as per Sound of Music - funny reference, I can’t help myself.
> 
> I’m so sorry for the errors. I haven’t given this a once-over, I will though. I wrote this because I can’t find some words to write the next chapter of my other fic - I do hope I can update within two weeks *fingers crossed*
> 
> Lmk what you think! Stay safe!


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